


Affliction

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Seine, Self-Harm, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13643841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He faults no one but himself.





	Affliction

**Author's Note:**

> Had a very bad morning, tried to work it out through this maybe, dunno if it helped, sorry in advance lol

He faults no one but himself, although so easily could he inflict blame elsewhere, or at least not entirely on his person. When this vile thought arises, he remedies it swiftly, and his shirtsleeves and trousers hide the evidence.

  
He thanks God for that, at least. He was not so lucky in his other attempt. In fact it was very much that which gave him away, the sagging fit of his clothes, though not until Javert - who despite persistent weeks of monitoring him at meals - very nearly threatened to inform Cosette did Valjean abandon his methods and gain back his strength. It was only in body he did so, and with that body, he learned, he could assuage his sadness and frustrations without fear of repercussion.

  
And he is more vigilant for it, opens only old wounds - scars from the lash and even the faded ghosts of gashes from his boyhood, when jagged branches snared him in Faverolles. He is careful they are never too deep; they heal within a week’s time, turned back to roughened skin he never lets anyone see or touch but for himself when he is alone and can clean the blood with tears.

  
Javert merely assumes that he is still hesitant of his advances, and respects that, and Valjean knows not whether to be grateful or desperate.

  
Nevertheless, he persists, weeks turning to months until he is uncertain of what compels him to the razor. A numbness seizes his soul, and the press of the blade becomes rote muscle memory, the sound of skin ripping a formality, the welling of red his only true prize, although the accompanying pain is appreciated.

  
Then no longer does he inflict upon skin already marred, becomes careless with his pressure, a lapse which nearly has him discovered one day when Toussaint comments on a stain. Thankfully, Javert is not present to hear her wonder aloud if Monsieur has been injured, and he crafts a vague lie that will not incite investigation. He does not heed his own alibi and takes to doing his own washing.

  
Very soon, he cannot cry, and this horrifies him. Tears meant remorse, regret, that he would be ashamed if his family discovered him. There is no fear of that. Perhaps it is because he hopes his shame will be revealed, perhaps then he can mend. But then, does he really want to? When it is so easy to coax the blood, watch it swell, wash it away for another time? When in those few seconds there is such an immense, intoxicating relief from his agonies?

  
He contemplates this each time he takes the razor between deft fingers and sets it against his shoulder, his thigh, his stomach. Quite often he throws the damn thing across the room, rocks himself in his arms, breathes as though choking, but inevitably, always, retrieves it again, and drags his skin open. One day, he hopes, he will make peace with it, but not now, not now.


End file.
